How Serena Beuford fake butt explosion took the media in (again).

How did Serena Beuford’s fake butt explosion come to be the viral story du jour?

Serena Beuford fake butt explosion teaches us how new media really works: There’s nothing like the tabloids hoarding yummy stories that we all know are going to lead to trigger clicking readers lapping things up.

Except sometimes the yummy stories publishers are banking to the bank are just bunk. Bunk because checking sources and rushing to get the story and hits out is the overriding prerogative in new media.

While photos of Beuford with her butt implants are purportedly making their way round the web, website Thatsfake.com points outit’s actually ‘mega huge fake booty‘ model Elnaz1985, who has several other selfies on Twitter.

Reports cosmopolitan:According to Douglas Steinbrech, a board certified plastic surgeon, “Implants don’t pop. They stay in position. It’s not like a balloon. If she had a balloon filled with some kind of saline, even if it popped, the fluid still stays there and then it takes hours for the fluid to resorb. It’s not like you’d have that immediate deflation.

Because who is going to resist the lure of mega butts imploding and the opportunity to gawk along in the era of post Kim Kardashian look at how smashing my butts are?

Nevertheless road accidents and plastic butt implosions aside, the hoax is ‘especially troubling because it took in an NBC affiliate, typically near the top of the internet hierarchy of trustworthy sources, which lent credibility to something that normally wouldn’t pass the sniff test.’

Never mind even old media is now new media: trashy, steeped in desire for viral traffic and the lowest common denominator. Aren’t you glad you didn’t grow up wanting to be a journalist… oh wait?

About

I think the idea to start “Scallywag and Vagabond.” (SCV) originates from my myriad background and the many years I have spent in preferred cafes and brasseries extolling the virtues and subtle intricacies of ‘being’ as the Beaujolais ran, the cigarette wafted and the gentleman to my side pontificated while spraying himself with a deftly tied cravat and sun crested idolatry.’

I grew up in Australia where as a young man one was obliged to become a hero of sorts. A master swimmer, fighter of causes, ideals and disheveled denizen of aesthetics, and more often a carefree ‘larrikin’ who would occasionally poke his sun bronzed nose at authority and convention Read More